Silverfoot

Front matter

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Introduction

W HEN I was a little girl I heard many stories of the War-between-the-States, which were more fascinating to me than fairy tales or legends. Nor was their charm lessened by the fact that some of them were about people and places that I knew:

A drop-kneed negro man, whom I saw daily going humbly and quietly to his work, had once carried a message that had saved the life of a young Southern planter.

A dear acquaintance was one of the heirs to a lost for¬ tune, said to have been buried in the yard of an old South¬ ern home.

A horse—but I must not anticipate my story of Silverfoot, which is woven around a true incident and inter¬ woven with treasured memories and childish impressions still strong and vivid.

It is the “ long ago ” of which I write, yet my little

heroines seem close akin to the children who play now in

8 INTRODUCTION

the streets of our old Southern towns; and to the children

everywhere, as for that matter.

And courtesy, kindness, courage, and faithfulness, each of which plays its part in my narrative, belong to no one period nor section nor people; which is a pleasant thing to think about.

It is pleasant, too, to know that whenever a horse and a small negro boy make acquaintance, a friendship between them is as inevitable as it was in the days of Rhody’s Jim and Silverfoot.

Maud Lindsay.

ILLUSTRATIONS

“Hi, dar, black horse, whut’s yo’ name?”

( Page 34) - - - - - Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

Up went the hand of the boy she had selected 6G Her words ended in a gasp of astonishment - 74 “ This was your Aunt Kitty’s trunk ” - • 92

“ ‘Look away! Look away ! Look away!

“Did you ever see such a beauty!” - - - 124

Cousin Gage was waiting on the steps - - - 146

Jim Led Silverfoot from the garden into the

Chapter One

E ARLY one morning, long ago, Katherine and Sue and Caledonia Carroll sat together in their grand¬ mother’s garden.

If they had looked the wide world over they could hardly have found a pleasanter place in which to be. Bluebells and hyacinths and jonquils were blooming all about them; birds were singing in every tree-top; an absurdly awkward young jay-bird, just out of the nest, was trying his wings almost at their feet; and a butterfly circled slowly around their heads as if it suspected them of being flowers. Yet the girls were as sober and downcast as though a desert surrounded them.

They were cousins, of about the same age, who had re¬ cently come to visit their grandmother on her big plantation; and, though this was during the War-betweenthe-States, when every Southern household was unsettled and anxious, the girls had been particularly happy at Twin Oaks, as the place was called, until now.

But this morning a gay young uncle at whose heels they had followed constantly, and who, in a high-handed, patronizing way, had made them his confidantes, was go¬ ing to join the Confederate army. He had told them, twenty times over, how dreadful it would be for him to stay at home when other boys were fighting for the South; and how unreasonable it was for any one to say that he was too young to go when he was almost seventeen; and they had agreed with enthusiasm to all he said.

But when his knapsack was actually packed, and the time when he must leave them was drawing near, their hearts had suddenly grown so heavy that they had been forced to steal away to the garden to indulge in a little private grief.

It had been very different when their fathers went away in the beginning of the war. The streets of the cities where they lived had been crowded with people who cheered and sang as the soldiers marched by. And the bands had played Dixie. Oh, if there were only a band to play for Charlie! and other soldiers to go with him. But when one boy went by himself it was terrible.

“ I know he will be killed,” said Caledonia, bursting into tears as she spoke.

“ How can you say such a thing? ” cried Sue. “ It makes me perfectly wild to hear you. I wish Grand¬ mother would change her mind, and say he had to stay at home. Yes, I do, and Katherine needn’t look so sur¬ prised.”

“ I wish we were all boys and could go, too,” said Katherine. “ Then we wouldn’t mind his going one bit.”

“ I should think not,” said Sue. “ I can see myself in a battle right now, waving my sword and calling, ‘ A Carroll! A Carroll! ’ And you and Cousin and Charlie galloping up to fight with me. And the Yankees retreat¬ ing! Oh, don’t you think it would be grand? ”

“ No, I don’t,” sobbed Caledonia. “ I think it would be horrid. I hate swords, and riding so fast would make

me dizzy.”

Her cousins looked at her with a kind of amused aston¬ ishment. She was so different from themselves. Sue was a Carroll out and out, with her auburn hair and pepper-pot temper; Katherine had the Carroll self-reliance and high spirit; but Caledonia was like her mother’s family. When she was nothing but a toddling baby Mammy Selie, the black nurse who had helped to bring up all of Grand¬ mother’s children, had said:

“ She ain’t lak us-all; she’s lak dey-all.” And every¬ body in the family had agreed with her.

If Caledonia had been left to herself she would have sat in the house sewing quilt-pieces or dressing dolls the whole day long, but Katherine and Sue would not hear to this. “ Cousin,” as they called her, must go where they went and do what they did; and rather than not to have her in all their plays and plans, they often modified them.

“We could belong to the infantry instead of the cavalry if you didn’t want to ride,” suggested Sue, rapidly adjust¬ ing her imagination to meet the situation on this occasion. ‘‘ I think to march four abreast would be grand; and you’d soon get used to swords.”

“ I wonder if Charlie will ride Silverfoot,” said Kath¬ erine, bringing the conversation back to reality. “ He planned to ride him, I know, but last night I heard Aunt Virginia begging Grandmother not to let him do it. She said she wouldn’t risk him on a two-year-old colt for any¬ thing, if she were Grandmother.”

“ But Silverfoot isn’t like other two-year-old colts. He’s ever so much smarter. Uncle Boss says he is, and Uncle Boss knows. Besides Charlie can ride any horse! ” protested Sue indignantly.

“ It isn’t because Aunt Virginia doesn’t think Silverfoot is fine,” explained Katherine, “ but because of the guns and drums and bugles. Of course a young horse would be afraid of them.”

“ Why can’t Charlie go in the infantry like Sue says we could? ” asked Caledonia, weeping again at the thought of a new danger. “ Please, Katherine, beg him to change. He’ll listen to you.”

Sue was horrified at the suggestion. Charlie change from the cavalry when nobody could ride as well as he could! She had said they could march if they were boys, but they were not boys. And, anyway, she was just play¬ ing. Indeed Charlie would ride Silverfoot!

She was hotly pouring out her opinions when Charlie himself appeared in the garden in search of them.

“ Girls, girls, where are you? ” he called. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

They hastily wiped their eyes and hid their handker¬ chiefs in their pockets, though it was hard not to grow tearful again when they saw that he was dressed in his grey uniform that had come from town only that morning.

“ How does it fit? ” he demanded, turning about so that they could get a full view of his grandeur.

“ Beautifully, beautifully! ” they responded in a brave chorus; but Charlie eyed them with suspicion.

“ What are you doing ’way down here? ” he asked.

“ Girls are certainly funny. Don’t you know that it is almost time for me to go? Why, Isaac was bringing the horses ’round when I left the house.”

“ We were just talking about Silverfoot,” said Kath¬ erine, tactfully avoiding his dangerous questions. “You are going to ride him, aren’t you? ”

“ No, I’m not,” said Charlie, flushing as he answered. “ He’s just as safe as any horse, I don’t care who says he isn’t; but I began to think of wounded horses, and all that, and I can’t risk Silverfoot. I’m going to leave him for you to take care of, and don’t you let the Yankees get him. I’d rather they’d get me.”

The little girls thrilled with delight. To have Silver¬ foot left in their special charge was an honor of which they had never dreamed.

“I’ll fight the Yankees myself before they shall have him,” Sue declared.

The Federal forces had never come to that part of the country in which Twin Oaks plantation lay, but there were always rumors that they were coming. And it was exciting to plan what you would do if they suddenly swooped down upon you. The girls often did that.

“ Where would you hide Silverfoot, Charlie, if you were here and the Yankees came? ” asked Katherine, who was more practical than Sue, though not one whit less enthu¬ siastic.

Charlie stopped to consider the question before he answered.

“ The mountain would be the best place if you could get him there, but you could put him in the haunted cabin down in the woods, or in the cave by the creek. You’ll have to watch out, though, no matter where you hide him, or those sharp-eyed Yankees will find him. My! wouldn’t they like to get a horse like Silverfoot! ”

They had walked through the garden as they talked and by this time were in sight of the house. The family and house-servants were already assembling on the gallery to tell Charlie good-bye, and Isaac, his body-servant, was waiting with the horses under the twin oaks, which gave the plantation its name.

All Grandmother’s daughters-in-law, and grandchil¬ dren, with the exception of Katherine’s mother and little brothers, who had not yet left the city where her father was stationed, were at Twin Oaks. And besides these there was what Charlie called “ a sprinkling of cousins ” who had come from far and near at the first alarm of war. Grandmother always kept open house to her kinsfolk.

One of these cousins had greatly distressed the little girls by insisting that Grandmother would “ give up ” when the time came for Charlie to go. They could think of nothing worse than that. Everybody depended on Grandmother, and if her courage failed, what would they do?

It had not failed when she had lost her only little girl for whom Katherine was named; nor when Grandfather Carroll died and left her with boys to raise and a great plantation to manage; nor when her older sons went to the war.

Still, Cousin Betsy Patrick had held to her opinion: “ Mark my words, when the time comes for Charlie to go, Cousin Lucy will give up.”

It was with a great feeling of relief that the little grand¬ daughters spied Grandmother standing with the rest of the family on the porch, and looking as calm and cheerful as usual.

“ I always did say that Cousin Betsy Patrick did not know what Grandmother would do. Why, just to look at her makes me brave,” whispered Katherine, as she and her cousins followed Charlie up the gallery steps.

Not all of the waiting group were as composed as Grandmother. Katherine saw that Aunt Dora, Cale¬ donia’s mother, was tearful, and Aunt Virginia put her handkerchief to her eyes when she spied Charlie, but Kath¬ erine hoped that he did not notice it. He could not bear for people to make a fuss over him. And she did hope that Sue and Caledonia would keep the agreement that they had made among themselves; not to cry where he could see them. She cast an apprehensive glance in their direction, and to her great astonishment found that Sue was giggling. That seemed worse than crying when Charlie was about to leave them.

U T>.

I’m laughing at Isaac,” Sue explained hastily. “ He’s so proud of going with Charlie that he can’t to save his life keep from smiling; and whenever anybody looks at him, he tries to get solemn. Do see how Aunt Calline’s frowning at him.”

Aunt Calline, a large fat black woman with a gloomy countenance, was Grandmother’s cook, and Isaac’s mother. She was as proud as he that her mistress had chosen him to be Charlie’s body-servant, but she was not going to let him know it.

“ You, Isaac,” she called as she held out a package of good things that she had brought from the kitchen, “ I’se done tole you ’fo’ dis ter solemnize yo’se’f. Hit ain’t no time fer rej’icin’. Fetch Mis’ Lucy’s baby back ’yer safe an’ soun’, and den laff. You heah me? Teck dis snack an’ put hit in de saddle-bag fer Marse Charlie when he’s hongry, an’ do des lak Mis’ Lucy tell you.”

“ Isaac knows the trust we are putting in him, Aunt Calline; he will not fail us,” said his mistress.

“ No, dat I ain’t. Um gwine stay right wid Marse

Charlie twell I fotch ’im home,” Isaac affirmed gravely, but as his glance met his young master’s, his mouth spread from ear to ear again.

“ I’m glad he’s going,” said Katherine. “ Grand¬ mother says Isaac will take care of Charlie if anybody can.”

“ I’ll take care of Isaac, too,” said Charlie, catching the whispered words; “ and I shouldn’t be surprised if we two ended the war. You’d better keep our names in the bis¬ cuit pan, Aunt Calline, for there’s no telling when we’ll come riding home; and we’ll be hungry sure enough when we’ve whipped the Yankees.”

The negroes laughed delightedly at this. They were ready and willing to be pleased with whatever Charlie might say, for of all the Carroll brothers, he was the fa¬ vorite with the black folk.

“ Don’ you git married ’fo’ you comes home, Marse Charlie,” said Embrey, the dining-room boy, as Charlie went the rounds of the servants, shaking hands with every one of them.

“ I lay he do,” said another negro. “ De gals ain’t gwine let ’im git by.”

“ I’m going fighting, not courting,” said Charlie, and set them all laughing again.

“ Dar ain’t no marryin’-time lak wah-time,” said Mammy Selie, giving him a playful push as he reached her. Then realizing all at once that he was going into danger, she threw her apron over her head and began to rock herself to and fro in silent grief.

“ I can’t keep from crying,” gasped Caledonia, catching hold of one of Katherine’s arms.

“ Neither can I,” said Sue, grasping the other.

“ Try to think of something else,” whispered Katherine, blinking her own eyes to keep the tears back. “ That is what Grandmother told me to do when I had my tooth pulled, and it certainly did help.”

“ I can’t think of anything else to think of,” faltered Caledonia, but fortunately a diversion came from an un¬ expected quarter.

Charlie had just bidden the cousins good-bye, and was turning toward his doleful little nieces, when a longlimbed, wild-eyed negro boy came racing toward the house from the direction of the stables, with his arms flapping like a turkey-buzzard’s wings.

“ Marse Charlie, Marse Charlie! ” he called at the top of his voice. “ I’se gwine ride Silverfoot ter water ebery day twell you gits back, ain’t I? Please, Marse Charlie,

IS.

“ Ain’t dat nigger boy got no manners? ” grumbled one of the older servants, but Charlie seized the opportunity for fun.

“ Here in the presence of my assembled family,” he pro¬ claimed grandiloquently, “ I cross my heart and body and declare that Rhody’s Jim, and nobody else, shall ride Silverfoot to water till I come home again.”

The little incident broke into the strain of parting most happily, and even Caledonia was cheerful enough to wave and nod in answer to Charlie’s last words, called back as he rode away.

“ Don’t you forget what I told you to do, girls.”

Chapter Two

N O sooner were horses and riders out of sight than Sue beckoned her cousins to follow her from the gallery.

“ I think we ought to go to see Silverfoot right now,” she told them when they had reached a corner where they might talk undisturbed. “ He’s going to be dreadfully lonely without Charlie and we’ll have to stay with him, and pet him, and give him sugar just as Charlie has always done—please, Cousin, go ask Aunt Calline for a lump— and while we are down at the stables we can find out from Uncle Boss all about the mountain, who lives there, and how to get there, and everything.”

“ But we mustn’t tell him why we want to know,” said Katherine, as she and Sue waited for Caledonia’s errand

to be done. “ Charlie told us to hide Silverfoot if the

Yankees came, and we must do it all by ourselves; that is,

if we can.”

“ Of course we can,” cried Sue, flaring with indignation at the mere suggestion that they might need assistance. “ But I’ll tell you what would be nice. Uncle Boss might take us to the mountain some day just to see what’s up there. Oh, Katherine, do you suppose he would? ”

But Katherine was of the opinion that it would not be wise to make such a request. Uncle Boss was Grand¬ mother’s carriage-driver and the power and authority of the Carroll stables. He was not to be trifled with, the little girls knew that very well.

At the time of their proposed visit he was sitting in front of the stable doors talking to “ Brer Nor’cross,” the plan¬ tation preacher, about Charlie.

“ He come down hyer bright an’ early dis mawnin’,” he was saying as the girls approached, “ an’ des ez soon ez I sot eyes on ’im I knowed he wuz bothered. I up an’ axed ’im plump an’ plain, ‘ Whut ails you, Marse Charlie?’ An’ Marse Charlie he say, sezzee, ‘ Dar ain’t nuffin’ ail me, but I ain’t gwine ride Silverfut. I can’t let no Yankee git a shot at ’im.’ ‘ Tank de Lawd, sumpin’ gwine be

lef’ us,’ I say. An’ he rid de roan.”

“ When my ole Marster, an’ Marse Andrew Jackson an’ Marse John Coffee fit de Creek Injuns, I wuz right dar,” said Brer Nor’cross, musingly. “ An’ I ain’t nebber fer¬ got how dem Injuns whooped and yelled. Hit ain’t ter be fergot.”

“ Dar ain’t no Injuns in dis yer wah,” said Uncle Boss, whose mind was on the present. “ Des Yankees. Tank de Lawd, I say, des lak I tell you, when Marse Charlie ’lowed he warn’t gwine gib ’em no chance at Silverfut.”

“ Tank de Lawd, dat’s whut I say when me an’ my old Marster rid home safe fum Hoss-Shoe Ben’. I got ’ligion dat ve’y day, an’ I ain’t nebber los’ hit. I’se gwine preach ’ligion des ez long ez I kin talk, an’ when I can’t talk no mo’, I’se gwine p’int up’ard,” said Brer Nor’cross, lifting a trembling finger toward the sky.

The little girls had reached the stables by this time but they waited in respectful silence till the old man dropped his hand into his lap again. They had been brought up from their cradles to have what their black nurses called manners.

It wasn’t manners to interrupt.

Nor to go “ rip-racing ” round the place bareheaded.

Nor to forget to say yes, ma’am, and no, ma’am, or yes, sir, and no, sir to older people.

Nor to sit on the floor.

Nor to whistle. (This was for girls—not boys.)

And to “ disrespect ” preachers, or old people was more than a breach of good manners. It was a sin.

As soon as she could speak with propriety, though, Katherine advanced.

“ Good morning, Uncle Boss. Good morning, Uncle Nor’cross,” she said politely. “ Did the rang-gum-root liniment that Grandmother sent you help your rheuma¬ tism? ”

Brer Nor’cross gave a little start at the sound of her voice.

“ I mos’ thought I hyeard my young mistis whut wuz yo’ A’nt Kitty speakin’ ter me den. You sho’ is her spit n’ image, chile. Same voice, same look, same smile, same age I ’lows ez she wuz w’en I seed ’er las’,” he said, shading his eyes with his hand so that he might better see the little girl. “ I lay Mis’ Lucy loves you powerful well.”

“ Not better than she does the others,” said Katherine, sensitive for the feelings of her cousins.

“ Maybe not, maybe not,” agreed the old man catching her thought, “ but you sho’ does faver Miss Kitty. De ve’y week afo’ she died she come down ter my cabin do’. ‘ Unk Nor’cross,’ she say, des lak you say hit, ‘ I done come ter show you my May-Queen does.’ One week a May Queen an’ de nex’ a angel bright, praise de Lawd. But she wuz Mis’ Lucy’s only gal.”

Her resemblance to her little aunt was an old story to Katherine, but it never failed to please her.

“ Grandmother has told me all about Aunt Kitty. She thinks I look like her, too. But I know I shall never be so good and sweet as she was,” she said, blushing under the old man’s admiring gaze.

“ You are as good as Aunt Kitty, or any one else,” cried Sue, who was always Katherine’s champion. “ Grand¬ mother ought to love you best if she doesn’t. And you’ve been a May Queen, too.”

Uncle Boss slapped his knee and chuckled at this out¬ burst.

“ Dar speaks Marse Tom,” he cried. “ She ain’t got her pa’s red haid fer miffin’. An’ Marse Tom he tuck atter Ole Marse Henery, what wuz de mos’ tempery man dat ebber I see. He didn’ mean no harm by hit, dough. W’en his temper riz he des tuck ter de woods and tromped hit out, yes siree, dat whut he done.”

He was chuckling again at his recollections when a sus¬ picion seized him.

“ Whut you chillun want down yer? ” he demanded. “ I lay youse up ter sumpin’ nur.”

“We’ve just come to see Silverfoot,” Katherine answered soothingly. “ You don’t mind if we do that sometimes, do you? ”

“ I lay I’se got ter stan’ hit,” replied the old man, “ but

• • 4 ■ * - .

ef you gits too projeckin’, Um gwine straight ter Mis’ Lucy.”

“ Cousin has brought Silverfoot a lump of sugar,” said Sue, pushing Caledonia forward. “ You know Charlie loves for him to have sugar.”

Uncle Boss gave a kind of grumbling assent as he re¬ luctantly led the way into the stable. The girls had hoped that he would let them go alone but he had no idea of doing that, it was plain to see.

“ Times sho’ is changed,” he complained as he shuffled ahead of them. “ No mo’ fox-huntin’ nur barbecues nur infa’rs. De gem’mun’s all gone an’ de hosses. Look at dese empty stalls. When dey gwine fill up? I ax you dat.

“ Right yer’s whar Marse Dick’s ‘ Dragon ’ stood, dat flea-bit grey he bought dp in Tennessee, an’ paid a hatful er money fer; dat’s des how he measured hit. Dar warn’t no finer hoss in de Valley dan Dragon twell Silverfut was bawn.

“An’ dis yer’s Lady Egmont’s stall; Silverfut’s her colt. W’en de wah broke out Mis’ Lucy sent Lady Egmont ter Miss Emma’s boy, wid her love. Marse Charlie an’ Isaac dey’s gone on de roan an’ ole Sleepy-hoss, an’ ef Rock an’ Rye warn’ too fat an’ ole ter trabel fur, somebody’d be ridin’ dem off ter de wah, an’ Mis’ Lucy wouldn’t hab nuffin’ but mules ter pull de kerridge.”

“ But we’ve still got Silverfoot,” said Katherine.

“ And, oh, look, he’s poking his head out of his stall to see who’s talking about him,” cried Sue. “ Isn’t he the smartest thing in the world? ”

But in spite of the caresses that the girls lavished upon him, and the sugar lump which Caledonia hastened to offer him, Silverfoot was plainly disappointed in his visi¬ tors. Again and again he looked beyond them, and stamped on the floor of his stall as if to summon the one he wanted to see.

“ Silverfut am de knowingest critter on dis yer planta¬ tion, an’ dat’s de Gospel trufe,” said Uncle Boss, lowering his voice as if he were afraid the horse might understand what he was saying. “ He ain’t stompin’ an’ gwine on dat way fer miffin’. I lay he knows Marse Charlie’s gone dez ez well ez us do. I dunno how we’se gwine satisfy ’im ’bout hit.

“ I tole Marse Charlie de ve’y day dis colt wuz bawn dat hit warn’ no common colt. ‘ Heap er folkses gwine want dis yer colt,’ I say. An’ lawsy, lawsy, hit warn’ no time twell fust one an’ den anur wuz beggin’ Marse Charlie ter sell ’im. But us-all don’ sell our hosses nur niggers.

“ Ain’t a white ha’r on ’im ’cep’n’ his one white forefut,” he continued, describing the horse to the girls just as if they were hearing of him for the first time. “ De day he wuz bawn I say ter Marse Charlie, ‘ Marse Charlie, I lay you gwine call dis colt Whitefut;’ but w’en Mis’ Lucy and de ladies come down hyer ter see ’im, Mis’ Lucy she ’lowed hit mus’ be name’ Silverfut, an’ dat’s been hits name ebery sence. Us allers does hev high-soun’in’ names fer our hosses.”

“ Silverfut kin show you whut his name is,” said Rhody’s Jim, appearing suddenly from the darkness of a near-by stall, where he had evidently been resting from the exer¬ tions of the morning. “ Wanter see me mek ’im? ”

Without waiting for an answer he darted into Silverfoot’s stall, and, before Uncle Boss knew what he was about, was leading the colt out.

“ Don’ you be skeered. He’s gwine stan’ still,” he as¬ sured his audience; and with his next breath admonished Silverfoot:

“ Don’ you go ter kickin’ up yo’ heels, an’ skeerin’ no¬ body. Youhyearme! Whoa!

“ Now den de folkses kin see you,” he said, and stepping back from his pet, he snapped his fingers Joudly and called:

“ Hi, dar, black hoss, whut’s yo’ name? ”

Up came the white forefoot, much to the delight of the girls who had not seen this accomplishment before.

“ Oh, Jim, what else can he do? ” they cried.

“ He kin answer when I whistles ter ’im,” said Jim, fairly bursting with pride. “ You des lissen hyer.”

He backed out of Silverfoot’s sight and puckering up his lips he whistled, three low notes, one long and two short, that were not unlike a thrush’s call. Instantly the horse lifted its head and nickered joyfully.

“ Dat’s mine and Marse Charlie’s whistle, but us-all ain’t nebber tole hit ter nobody,” said Jim, reaching out his hand and giving Silverfoot an affectionate slap.

“ Um aimin’ ter learn dis yer hoss sumpin’ else ’fo’ Marse Charlie gits back,” he added casting a sly glance at Uncle Boss.

The old man who had been divided between disapproval and pride during Jim’s exhibition of the colt, evidently thought it was high time to assert himself.

“ Ef I catches you playin’ yo’ monkey-shines wid Marse Charlie’s hoss Um gwine run you clean out dis stable, nigger boy,” he threatened. “ Ain’t I done tole you dat dis hoss warn’ no trick hoss. Hit’s a quality hoss. Dar ain’t anur colt dis side er Nashville lak Silverfut.”

Jim, who was accustomed to Uncle Boss’s way, bore this outburst good-naturedly.

“ Come on, Silverfut,” he said. “ I reckon us-all’s got ter git back in de stall. An’ don’ you be r’arin’ ’roun none. Come ’long.”

With Jim out of the way Uncle Boss turned his atten¬ tion to the girls again.

“ I ’spects Mis’ Lucy’s lookin’ fer you little gals,” he remarked pointedly.

“We are going right now,” said Katherine hastily, “ but we wanted to ask you something, Uncle Boss. How far is it to the mountain? ”

“A fur piece, an’ no good road nurther. Mis’ Lucy ain’t thinkin’ ’bout dribin’ up dar, is she? ” Uncle Boss in¬ quired anxiously.

“ Oh, no,” said Katherine. “ I was just thinking—• that is we wanted-”

“ I ain’t gwine teck you,” interrupted Uncle Boss with determination in his voice. “ Hit’s all Rock and Rye kin hole out ter do to pull Mis’ Lucy an’ de folkses ter church an’ town, an’ I ain’t gwine resk ’em on no mount’in road.”

“ Why, Uncle Boss, we wouldn’t ask you to go to the mountain,” Katherine hastened to assure him. “ We just wanted to know about it. Who lives up there? ”